your ocd vs. the end of the world.
This work contains CWs for: Nervous behaviors, blood, violence, as well as mentions of drugs and suicidal ideation.
Y2K.mp3 by mxsinister
For the rest of my work, visit mxsinister's corner office.
Transcription1 of a digital recording by Lucas Aurelio Monaco, dated 30th December, 1999.
[A long, heavy sigh, followed by three seconds of silence.]
This is stupid. I know I am being stupid. I am being asinine and irrational, and everything I strive never to be.
But year two-thousand is in less than two days, and with it comes the end of the world's infrastructure … Ha …
It's ridiculous, looping myself in with the doomsdayers. What, should I stockpile frozen blood and canned food? Riot for its own sake?
[A scoff.]
Please, as if…
Yet, there is an insistent part of my brain that is utterly convinced that on the first of January, everything will go to hell. The concern is that since the computer systems of today were initially programmed to use two digits to represent the years, "00" could be interpreted as 1900 rather than 2000, making everything kaputt.
I've spoken to engineers, programmers, even fucking oracles over the years, for all the peace that's brought me … Divination has been as split as public opinion, go figure, but the technical experts swear up and down they're working their asses off to prevent the worst.
I wish that were enough to reassure me. I want so badly to trust that there are people out there handling this properly, that we are capable of averting a devastating catastrophe of our own doing.
But the past few weeks have been … God damn it.
[Four seconds of silence. A low, anguished groan.]
I was two years clean of biting my nails until Christmas Eve. It is an unsightly, disgusting habit, and I didn't even realize what I had done until I tasted the blood. And of course, once you start on one …
It wasn't long before I'd picked and chewed away every sharp point, before I'd mangled my cuticles and stripped them all down to their beds. Because somehow, as you're ruining your nails and all the skin around them, you think you can somehow fix it, if only you continue a little longer …
I had to wear gloves to that auction. I think I'll be wearing them for a while.
[A sigh. The brief shuffling of a cigarette pack.]
Get a hold of yourself, Lucas … That is the one-hundred and fourth time I have said that to myself this week.
But if it were that easy, I'd have done it ages ago.
[The click of a lighter. A slow inhale, exhale.]
I first heard about the bug during university. Some flippant, throwaway line by a classmate that had prompted my own investigation into the matter. It was as if I had been given a cancer diagnosis and told I had no choice but to spend the next six years ignoring it.
It was easy enough to keep myself distracted leading up to Christmas, given how busy we are, but almost as soon as the auction ended, I found Darke and requested time off. He granted it, of course — in-house employees are granted three months of time off a year, and I've barely scratched that in the three years I've been at the company.
It's not uncommon for us to take the holidays off, but it's no secret to my employers that I am exceptionally bad at taking vacations. I've yet to successfully stay out of the office for more than two weeks at a time; what if somebody fucks up while I'm gone, and I come back from relaxing just to have to clean it up? What if there's an oversight on my end because I was not there to pay attention? And what does relaxation entail for me, anyway? What, except a recess in which my brain is subject to cannibalize itself as our leisure?
[Four seconds of silence, save for quiet smoking. The soft ticking of a watch.]
Twelve hours until Kiribati is in year two thousand. Twenty-six until it hits London. I thought about traveling East, but what's a few hours at this point?
I opted to stay in London because if I am going to lose my mind, I ought to do so in the comfort of my own home. Besides, if the worst does happen, I'll want to already be here. I travel enough for work, anyway. And if there is an emergency at work, unrelated or no, I'll be close by … Not that I think I'd be of much help right now…
What an exhausting list of excuses … The truth is, I chose not to travel because I am just too tired for it.
I wish I could just sleep this off. Vampires are typically ambivalent to the act, myself more than most, but what little rest I've gotten in the past month has been fitful at best, and I can feel it wearing on me. My head aches, my appetite has waned, and when I try to read for too long, the words start to blur…
But I close my eyes and dream of nothing but power outages, system failures, containment breaches, and bank closures. It's not as if all of my dreams come to pass, but enough of them do, and unfortunately, I have no way of telling the nightmares from the prophecies until it happens.
Out of an abundance of caution, I disclosed all of this to Percival Darke three weeks ago. He listened, but we both know I do not suffer these visions in any capacity as a seer. I loathe to even use that term to describe myself. I am a casualty of fantastical thinking and a paranoid imagination who just so happens to be right too often for comfort.
[A deep sigh.]
God, the look on his face when I asked for time off … Was he concerned, disappointed? I know it's typical for people to get stressed, take holidays, but …
Did he know something was wrong with me?
[A pause, followed by two seconds of laughter.]
Well, fuck, of course he knows! Everyone in the office knows there's something wrong with me.
God, I remember this time, back when I was his intern, that Cartwright walked up to me in the common room, looked me dead in the eye, and threw a whole salt shaker to the ground. Right there, in front of a sales rep and two accountants, I literally dropped to my knees and spent the next seven minutes counting grains; there were 201,490.
But those are idiosyncrasies, ritual— certainly a far cry from a nervous breakdown. I don't care whether or not my colleagues whispered or chuckled about it behind my back. Let them call me neurotic or superstitious, so long as I can still work circles around them.
That's all this is, isn't it? My brain working faster than everybody else's?
[Three seconds of silence.]
… I only wish it would stop sometimes.
[Eight seconds of silence. Ash tapping into a crystal tray. The taps always come in sets of three.]
I need help.
It drives me out of my skin to admit it, but that doesn't mean it's not true.
No matter what, this spell will be over come the New Year, but what if the next obsession is not so timely? I cannot tolerate my performance suffering simply because my brain wants to come up with monsters under the bed and dwell on them.
I will not become a nervous, dysfunctional disaster, moving through work and life a miserable mess … It would be asking my employers to keep me on out of pity or ego, and that is unacceptable.
Ha, besides, we already have Hogarth for that.
[Five seconds of silence. The chewing of skin off a lip.]
Maybe I need medication. That's what they do when they diagnose humans with OCD, isn't it?
It's not the same, of course, and I've avoided it up until now because I'm worried about over-correction. Say what you will about my obsessive tendencies, but at least I'm thorough. So, I've had the fear that treatment would do more harm than good, but at this point, I don't think it can.
Anything has to be better than this.
[The grinding of a cigarette into an ashtray.]
We'll see. That's a problem for if the world doesn't end.
DATE: 01/01/2000
TIME BEGIN: 1:49AM UTC -0
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
[HOGARTH CARTWRIGHT activates the stenographer's stone in his left coat pocket as he approaches the front door of a manor. There is light snow falling.]
HOGARTH: Time to see if that little tweaker survived midnight.
[HOGARTH rings the doorbell. Twenty-five seconds elapse, and he rings again. After another thirty-one seconds, he rings a third time. Immediately after, LUCAS MONACO at last opens the door. He is visibly disheveled and annoyed.]
LUCAS: You're the pinnacle of patience.
[HOGARTH puts his free hand back in his pocket and smirks.]
HOGARTH: I figured you'd want me to ring three times.
LUCAS: Ha! I do appreciate it, actually. Happy New Year.
HOGARTH: The .aics just crashed. Centuries of company data gone. Silas is seeing what can be done, but—
LUCAS: Pfft, don't tell salads to me.2 I already spoke with Silas and Percival. Besides, I trusted they probably wouldn't let the .aics fail.
[LUCAS subconsciously knocks thrice on the wooden door frame.]
HOGARTH: Mm, pity.
LUCAS: It's hardly absurd to have more faith in the integrity of magic constructs digitized by de facto immortals compared to the architecture of the world at large.
[HOGARTH narrows his eyes at LUCAS.]
HOGARTH: Are you drunk?
LUCAS: Are you high?
HOGARTH: … How are your hands holding up under the gloves?
LUCAS: Roll up those sleeves, let's see those track marks.
[Both exchange thin, unfriendly smiles.]
HOGARTH: Isn't it bad luck to talk under open doors?
LUCAS: Worse, it brings in a draft. Goodnight.
[LUCAS starts to close the door, but HOGARTH blocks it with his cane.]
HOGARTH: Oh, come on. It's cold, and I've never properly seen your place. May I come in?3
LUCAS: Ugh, fine. Only because I'm staying up to watch Times Square anyway.
[LUCAS waves him in and shuts the door. They walk further in the manor.]
HOGARTH: I expected it to smell like disinfectant, but Jesus Christ. My eyes are watering.
[LUCAS rolls his eyes.]
LUCAS: Bloody drama queen … God forbid I keep a clean house.
HOGARTH: And how many times have you cleaned the place since Christmas?
[LUCAS ignores the question as they enter a parlor. "Yellow Submarine" by the Beatles spins quietly on a record player, accompanied by the television broadcasting New Year's coverage. AMALINA ADORNO DI MONACO sits with her knees tucked in an armchair, a glass of white wine in hand, and looks up as the others enter.]
LUCAS: Amalina, this is Hogarth Cartwright, my accountant.
HOGARTH: The company's accountant.
[LUCAS waves dismissively.]
LUCAS: Hogarth, Amalina Adorno.
[AMALINA sits up and extends a hand.]
AMALINA: Hi—pleasure to meet you. I'm Lucas' roommate.
[LUCAS looks at her quizzically, then shrugs.]
LUCAS: I'd argue I'm your landlord, but sure, that works.
AMALINA: "Live-in-maid you've put out of work" just doesn't have the same ring.
LUCAS: Terribly sorry. Did you not want the holiday off?
HOGARTH: I have to ask—how many times did he clean this house during his Y2K breakdown?
[LUCAS scowls.]
LUCAS: Not your business.
[AMALINA smiles and shrugs.]
AMALINA: Not your business. Can I get you a drink?
[HOGARTH looks at the wine and hesitates for a moment.]
HOGARTH: Sure, why not?
[AMALINA continues to speak as she rises from the chair and looks for the wine bottle.]
AMALINA: I told Lucas I was opening champagne for the new millennium with or without him, cause he'd been sitting stone-cold sober in front of the television for the past day— Lucas, where did we put—?
LUCAS: Oh, my bad.
[LUCAS steps onto the back of a chair and springs up to the ceiling, stumbling before getting a hold of an exposed wooden rafter tie.]
AMALINA: Be careful—!
[LUCAS and AMALINA both start laughing as he gracelessly pulls himself onto the beam. He picks up a bottle of 1989 Verdicchio di Matelica left atop the joist, swirling it once before quickly downing the remains, wiping his mouth after.]
LUCAS: It was nearly empty. I put more in the chiller.
AMALINA: Stay up there, I'll grab it.
[LUCAS grins and hooks his legs on the joist before letting his upper body fall back.]
LUCAS: Grazie.
[AMALINA leaves. LUCAS continues to hang upside-down, closing his eyes. "Hey Bulldog" by the Beatles begins to play. After five seconds, he grumbles something inaudible.]
HOGARTH: What was that?
LUCAS: I fucking hate the Beatles.
[HOGARTH chuckles, continuing to watch LUCAS for six seconds.]
HOGARTH: That cannot be comfortable.
LUCAS: Pfft. Perhaps not for your feeble human body. Clears my head.
HOGARTH: I see … Is that what you do when you get nosebleeds?
LUCAS: No. If you get a nosebleed, it's much better to tip one's head forward—oh.
[HOGARTH starts laughing. LUCAS reluctantly grins, making both hands into middle fingers as they dangle beneath his head. After seven seconds, HOGARTH's voice turns more sincere.]
HOGARTH: You know, I'm shocked that girl's still alive.
LUCAS: AB negatives are hard to come by.
HOGARTH: … I don't believe you're that callous.
LUCAS: Yes, because I'm notoriously warm and fuzzy.
[HOGARTH scoffs.]
HOGARTH: I'm only saying that all things considered—
[LUCAS opens his eyes, looking right at HOGARTH.]
LUCAS: Reconsider.
[The room is silent until AMALINA reenters with a 1992 Etna Bianco and an extra glass.]
LUCAS: I swear, if you don't change the record, I'm chaining you in the cellar.
AMALINA: You are so cool for hating pop culture. Un altro?4
LUCAS: Mm, in a moment. I'm comfortable up here.
[AMALINA uncorks the bottle and pours two glasses, passing one to HOGARTH.]
HOGARTH: Thank you.
[HOGARTH stares vacantly at the wine. AMALINA notices a faint light emitting from his coat pocket and gestures toward it.]
AMALINA: Your pager or something is going off, I think.
[Before HOGARTH can reply, LUCAS focuses on the light source.]
LUCAS: Is that…?
[LUCAS' eyes widen.]
LUCAS: Voyeuristic son of a bitch—!
[LUCAS flings himself from the rafters and hits HOGARTH with his full weight. The armchair crashes to the ground. A glass shatters. AMALINA backpedals three steps.]
AMALINA: I'm not cleaning that!
[Unintelligible swears and insults continue. A cane snaps. "Eleanor Rigby" by the Beatles plays over indistinct hissing, snarling, and shouting. The stenographer's stone falls from HOGARTH's pocket and hits the floor.]
[They grapple savagely on the floor until LUCAS pins HOGARTH under his knee, grabbing one of his wrists and shoving down the sleeve just enough to unceremoniously sink his teeth into the damaged veins. Three seconds elapse before LUCAS withdraws, turning his head to spit.]
LUCAS: Ugh … That's fucking rotten.
[HOGARTH coughs out a laugh, lightheaded from blood loss.]
HOGARTH: Don't act shocked … Let me know if that second-hand high does anything for you.
LUCAS: I've no love for downers—
[HOGARTH grunts as LUCAS drives his knee into his stomach.]
LUCAS: But I'd still bleed you dry if Percival wouldn't have my head.
[LUCAS spots and picks up the stenographer's stone.]
LUCAS: And if you wouldn't prefer that.
[END STENOGRAPHER’S STONE TRANSCRIPTION.]
TIME CONCLUDED: 02:00AM UTC -0
Transcription of a digital recording by Lucas Aurelio Monaco, dated 1st January, 2000.
[The whisper of wind and light snowfall.]
It's half past five; year two thousand has officially hit the New York office. Quite the party I'm missing, based on the calls I've gotten from my Transatlantic colleagues over the course of the night. I managed to shake them down for market data, though, and they confirmed that stocks will likely take a hit when they open in a few hours, but at least Wall Street's not burning down tonight.
[Three knocks on wood.]
Anyway, I've gone out onto the balcony to record this, so as not to wake the humans.
[A pause, followed by an exasperated sigh.]
Yes, humans, plural.
[The light, repetitive noise of a metal nail file.]
After that debacle over the stone, I tossed Cartwright out of the house. Gently, for the record … Well, gently enough.
I thought he'd leyline back to the office, but after fifteen minutes, he was still lying in the snow. The prints looked like he'd tried to get up, but didn't make it very far.
Amalina cried about leaving an old man out in the cold, and I figured it would be an unbelievably stupid way to lose our lead accountant. I certainly didn't want to start my millennium by having that conversation with Percival, so I dragged him back in and made him comfortable.
[A sigh. The continued scraping of metal tools on nails, under cuticles.]
I seriously considered putting him in the cellar to dry out, but that seemed excessive.
Of course, I understand that I'm certainly no good judge on excess, but so long as the bastard wasn't wire-tapping me, I didn't mind him being in the parlor with us. Besides, he wasn't getting around terribly well.
[A brief, awkward chuckle.]
Apparently, that cane was real … Oops.
I honestly didn't know. I just always assumed it was for show, like Ruprecht's. I thought maybe it helped with balance, but who doesn't need that when you're stumbling around high? I was shocked to find it didn't have a sword in it or something.
[The methodical trimming of cuticles. The brushing away of skin clippings.]
Furthermore, I didn't want to give him any more bruises. Although I'm still sporting what's left of a nasty black eye, the reality of a vampiric healing factor is that by the time we both return to work, his will be the only body with memory of the scuffle.
What did the junkie expect, trying to one-up me like that in my own house? It's not as if I'm so witless as to drop in on him with tricks up my sleeve whenever he's on leave for his third mental breakdown of the quarter.
I won't excuse my violence by claiming I was under the influence, as I'm certain I would have reacted the same way sober—just as I'm certain he would have enacted the same outrageous scheme with or without whatever substances he was on…
[The light clatter of items being rearranged on a nearby table.]
When we get back, I imagine Percival will bring us into his office, disapprove of our immaturity for anywhere between a quarter and half an hour, and that will be that … assuming we let him find out about this fiasco at all.
I certainly don't plan on bringing it up, and the whole story ought to be more embarrassing for Cartwright than for me, if the shameless bastard cares about such things.
[The application of oil to cuticles.]
Truth be told, I'm ready to be back in the office. I need to put this energy somewhere … Well, the energy I'll have once I catch up on rest, anyway. In any case, I plan to go back to work the day after tomorrow.
[The vial of oil is placed back upon the table. Ten seconds elapse, silent save for the wind and snow, until there is a contented sigh.]
I rarely bother to watch sunrises, for obvious reasons, but I couldn't resist such beautiful conditions. Where has this weather been in the past few weeks? I should have just gone to the bloody Alps.
There's a purity to snow—a clean coldness I have always adored and sought to emulate. When that fractal frost falls to earth, it coalesces into amorphous clumps rather than countable pieces, rendering it devoid of the simple parts that would otherwise compel me.
Even as a boy, there were winter nights I'd sit on balconies just like this and think, "This is as quiet as I can ever hope for my mind to be."
[A yawn, followed by a long groan and the popping of joints as he stretches.]
Oh, Madonna, I'm getting poetic. If that's not my sign to retire, I'm not sure what is.
Something tells me I'm going to sleep very well today.
[Three knocks on wood.]
